


Other Kinds of Dreams

by Phoebsfan



Category: Fringe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:14:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoebsfan/pseuds/Phoebsfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <span class="small">Post Bad Dreams (1x17)  If she was a man, he wouldn't be having this problem.  Peter ponders on the problems a certain female agent is presenting.</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Other Kinds of Dreams

  
  


He wishes it had been nightmares; a collection of haunting images plaguing her dreams. Night terrors; a sudden overwhelming fear that startles her awake and makes her heart pound as she gasps for air. Those things he can handle.

An empathic connection to a man who shared the same lab with her when they were children. Drug testing on children, on her. The desperate look behind her eyes, the fear, panic, out in out horror that she is losing her mind. Those are things he can’t do anything about.

It would be fair to say that he’s developing feelings of tenderness toward her. It’s not surprising after all that they’ve been through, that when she’s feeling a little vulnerable—when she opens up to him—he can’t help but want to soothe her. They’re friends, partners even, it’s only natural that he feel protective toward her.

Just as it’s fair to say he’s noticed other things.

The fact that she’s an incredibly attractive woman who just happens to fall into his favorite flavor of women hasn’t escaped his attention. He’s been aware of certain _aspects_ almost from day one. It’s hard to ignore a mostly naked woman who is hell bent on acting reckless especially when she’s wrapped in his arms cold and wet. And all of the black suits and professional button ups in the world can’t hide the flair of her hips, or erase the image of her near perfect breasts heaving as she gasps for breath and buries her head in the hollow of his neck. Her death grip on him as a dangerous cocktail of drugs races through her system, is not something he will forget anytime soon. Her silky skin under his fingertips is not something he is able to file away cleanly either. It’s all very messy and confusing.

Much of their relationship is undefined. Maybe that’s because she knows he’s seen more of her than he should, considering she is kind of his boss. Or maybe it’s because he knows he can’t cut and run but he’s still living like he should. Maybe she’s just as uncomfortable with the notion of defining it as he is.

If she was a man he wouldn’t be having this problem. They’d catch the bad guys then go for drinks. There would be clear lines that wouldn’t get smudged because she had to take her clothes off and get in that damned tank, or he found out that she was a lab rat in one of his father’s crazy experiments when she was a child.

And watching her orgasm on a table in the lab while hypnotized would be something he would be able to give her crap about later. It certainly wouldn’t be something that would turn him on or haunt his dreams.

He wouldn’t be on his back, on the couch in some stupid hotel, wide awake and ready for action with his father snoring loudly in the background, if she was a man. The ghost of her sexually charged moans would not be echoing in his ears. He would be able to see other things when he closed his eyes, things that didn’t involve her head tossed to the side, her mouth open slightly, her hands tense, eyes closed so tightly…

Groaning, he rolls over and tries to ignore the raging need that tents his boxers.

He can’t think about her this way. It messes things up. It’s only because it’s been too long. He needs to go out and find some woman to relieve the pressure.

Someone to stop her bad dreams from becoming his wet dreams. It’s sick that he gets off on it.

He feels like a horny teenager and it shames him. He hasn’t had this much trouble controlling himself since he was knee deep in puberty.

But then he hasn’t met anyone like Olivia Dunham before either.

He tosses and turns some more. The room unbearably close, the air inhumanly hot. His groin aching uncomfortably with images of her pale skin tangled in his sheets running through his mind. He knows she’ll be loud, wild, and so passionate it will damn near kill him. Her hot little mouth pressed against him while she twists and tries to escape his fingers as they dig into her skin, fastening her to him while he rubs that hard and heavy part against her damp center.

Maybe he should call her and see how she’s doing.

He imagines her voice, soft and tired, in his ear as she tells him she’s fine. Imagines her fingers curling against his chest. Her breath tickling his cheek. Her lips full and ripe…

Maybe he shouldn’t call her. She’ll know. He knows she’ll know the moment he opens his mouth, because he knows he’s too far gone to control his tone. Hell, if she can’t already feel his desire for her from the miles that separate them now he’ll be surprised. He’s sure she feels that electric current that he emits and he’s embarrassed to admit that if she feels anything at all for him she’s much better at hiding it. He’s always been so successful at playing it cool; Olivia is a slap in the face.

He doesn’t even know when things got so complicated. He remembers he didn’t even really like her when she barged into his life. He remembers grudgingly giving her the respect she deserved some time later. But he doesn’t remember when he first thought about what it might be like to wake up next to her or the first time he got it into his head that calling her late a night would be acceptable.

Or when the idea of tearing all her clothes off and becoming the one responsible for making her make those noises became a nagging, persistent, little beast of a thought and lost it’s ‘in your dreams’ fantasy status.

He knows he’s not going to sleep when he can’t stop thinking about how her hair smells and how her small frame fits so perfectly against his, so he throws the sheet back and makes his way to the bathroom.

This is becoming a nightly occurrence. The age old question: should he hop in the shower and take matters into his own hands, or try and out run the desire on the dark streets of Boston in the middle of the night. He’s been doing a lot of running lately, not coming back until he’s covered in sweat and ready to drop from exhaustion. He wonders what she does to stay in shape and if she’ll let him undress her after, run his fingers through her hair and slip inside while her body is still warm from her workout. Her skin already slick from pushing herself; he wonders if she’ll let him push her harder, make her feel even better than her workout does.

It’s not surprising that when he runs, somehow he always ends up running passed her place. Sometimes her light is on and he has to remind himself of all the reasons he can’t just knock on her door. Running is dangerous. It’s a gamble and he’s afraid that one night he’s going to lose and give in to that dark need that keeps him awake.

But he feels like a schmuck when he hops in the shower and takes care of matters by himself, because no matter how hard he tries not to, somehow she always finds her way into the shower with him. His imagination putting her down on her knees, her breasts pressed against the shower wall and his hands on her hips, or wrapped around his waist. It’s a disease really, the way he can’t shake her freckled face and emotive eyes. His need to fist her silky locks in his hand and press his lips to her pulse just to feel her heart race.

He turns on the shower, cranks the water to freezing, and pulls off his boxers.

She’s making him crazy without even trying.

The water hits him like tiny knives, chilling him to the bone, but he forces himself to stay under the brutal spray. Some kind of twisted punishment for thinking about her again. Tomorrow he’s got to change things. He’s got to let it go or find someone to purge him of this never ending torment.

He’s drinking more. He’s taking more risks. Gambling with things he can’t afford to lose, his vices are growing out of his control.

His body finally starts responding to the icy rain and he sighs. He’s unclear if he should be relieved or disappointed. Adjusting the temperature of the water to a more tolerable level, he closes his eyes and lets it run through his hair and over his face. Placing his hands on the wall in front of him he lets the water flow down his back.

It helps a little. Very little. He’d much rather she was rubbing her hands down his back.

God, he’s fucked up. He should respect her enough not to let that one little incident cause such havoc.

She had no control over it, and he’s willing to bet that if she knew she would be upset. They had all agreed some things didn’t need a detailed explanation (Well they meaning Astrid and him. Walter had to be distracted before he could tell her all the gory details of what she did while under.) So they had glossed over the incident, though he knows she remembers.

He’s just unclear on how much she remembers. If she felt satisfied when she woke, or just strangely aroused. Honestly, he’s not entirely certain she did climax. All he really knows is that her hands were damp, and he could have sworn her scent was a little thicker. But then, he might be a little biased. He was busy trying to hide just what her moans of delight had done to his lower extremity at the time.

His suddenly very interested lower extremity.

“Fuck it,” he growled under his breath as he squirted some body wash into his hand and grabbed his cock.

Trying to clear his mind of her sarcastic little smile, he tightens his grip and pulls. Trying not to think about her hands and how they would wrap around him, how she would lick his tip then guide him into her warm mouth. Trying not to think about how she would suck and let him wrap his hand in her hair. How he would force her face against his groin, going deep. Her hands on his waist to steady herself. The soft slick sound of her tongue working against him.

He gives up pretending he isn’t going to think about her as he works himself over. Tugging to the image of her crawling up his body and putting his hand on her aching center. Groaning, against her skin as he pushes her against the wall and lifts her leg. His hand a poor substitute for her tight, wet, cunt.

“Peter?”

And like that his fantasy is shattered.

“Peter, where are you?” his father calls out from the other room and he knows it’s only seconds before…

The bathroom door bursts open and Walter comes in and starts to pull back the shower curtain.

“I’m right here, Walter. What is it?” he asks as he grabs the curtain and holds it closed.

“Your phone was moving so I picked it up. I think it’s Agent Dunham,” he says as he shoves the phone into the shower, straight into the water. Peter quickly shuts off the water and takes the now wet phone.

Of course, because the very best time for her to call would be when he’s picturing himself fucking her in the shower and getting off on it.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asks as Walter tries to open the curtain again and Peter deflects him.

“Is everything alright? Walter seemed worried. Where were you?” she questions and he thinks maybe there is a slight ounce of worry in her voice.

“It’s fine. I was just in the shower,” he answers but silently adds: thinking about you. Were you thinking about me? Do you ever think about me? Can I come over and show you where I was? I promise you’ll like it.

“Oh. Uhm. I need you… We’ve got a case,” she sounds slightly flustered and he smiles. He thinks she might know exactly what he was doing in the shower at two-thirty in the morning, but he’ll let it be…

For now anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> A companion Olivia piece may be in the works... No promises though.


End file.
